How do I say this without making myself sound pathetic?
“I thought about … ending things. Not because I wanted to hurt myself but because I wanted so badly to escape the life that was carved out for me. To stop being Mia Love.”
His mouth twitches like he’s going to speak. Instead, he waits until I can’t bear the silence a moment longer.
“They made me go to the doctor … to a therapist. They got a diagnosis, and they got prescriptions. Things I had to take. They convinced a judge I was acting contrary to my best interests, and the rest is history.”
Maverick’s face is unreadable. But I can tell his mind’s working.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
He stares out the window, face unmoving. “No. But this changes things, Mia.”
“Changes the fact I’m tired of being controlled? So very bone-tired. That I want to decide for myself, just once? To do what’s in my best interest. Not whattheywant.”
“As guardian, Edwin has?—”
“I know. I know. Complete control over my finances, my future. But?—”
He crosses his arms, shutting down. Not listening. No one listens.
“But—” He waits.
But I can’t find the words. Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I still want to think there’s someone in this world who would care if they knew my story.
“What does Edwin want?”
Maverick runs a hand over his beard. “Wants to know where you’re at. Wants to get you back on tour. Said he could make this easier if you cooperated.”
I huff. “Of course.”
Silence.
“Money’s always the bottom line.”
The big cowboy doesn’t answer. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.
After all, he’s my bodyguard, working in an official capacity. His first job. There are lines he won’t cross, and can I really blame him?
Or maybe worse, he doesn’t care. There’s that, too.
I swipe my hand over my cheeks, stopping the tears that want to fall in my coffee.
“We can buy you a few days.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, staring into the billows of brown and white, like thunderheads in the Texas heat. “You’ve already done more than you should have.”
“The man at your concert. The one who shot up the place. You sure they have the right guy?”
I shake my head. “Yeah, I got a good look at his face. Countless other witnesses identified him, too.”
I scrutinize the world-weary cowboy, but his face gives no answers. Then, he rises, leaves the room. He returns with a Kleenex box, plopping it down next to me.
I stare at the floral box, disappointment blooming. Of course, he won’t help. No one will.
“Sorry I’m so emotional right now.”
“Makes sense with all you’ve been through.” His tone is softer now, eyes more perceptive.
